Hand on my Throat NC-17, SamDean
by Alexa Dean
Summary: Sam is a man with a plan and Dean? He's going along for the ride.


** . **

**FIC:** Hand on My Throat 1/1, [NC-17], Sam/Dean

**Author:** AlexaDean

**Rating:** NC-17

**Pairing:** Sam/Dean

**Word Count:** ~4,350

**Warnings/Spoilers:** Sam is seventeen. Pre-Stanford: so no spoilers. Mild coercion. Psychotically co-dependent brothers screwing. Hard-core Dean worship. Teenage hormones. Dean angst. Maybe mild dub-con.

**Summary:** _Sam is a man with a plan. And Dean? Oh, he's going along for the ride. _

He can't bring himself to understand how it is that Dean can just _be_, while Sam feels like he's half out of his mind on a good day. He thinks he should feel ashamed or maybe a little guilty. He feels none of these things.

He doesn't know what it has to say about him. And he gets more than a little thrilled to know he's got one up on John. He's got something all to himself: a part of Dean unchartered and unclaimed. The truth of it measured by the span of Sam's hands on him. No lop-sided smiles or quick-witted sarcasm, only bold-faced _need_ and Dean's half-born whimper in Sam's ear.

But John was back. And with him a harsh, sobering reality. As always, Sam was left on the back burner, left to simmer in his own resentment. If Sam was a little short with John, well Dean's hard-spit glare was enough to hold Sam's tongue.

So Sam sits at the breakfast table, sullen, watching Dean cook eggs over a skillet. Over easy and a little runny, like Sam prefers, to soak up the yolk with his toast.

But Sam's hunger is less about food these days and more about Dean, who hasn't bothered with a shirt, or even pants. Just stands there in his bare feet and boxers and it's probably the hottest thing ever.

Sure, the weather is to blame, but it really has no business being as warm as it is this early in the morning, but if Dean's near nudity is a result, then Sam can deal with it.

Sam watches him as he always has, from the corners of his eyes, and the gaps between his bangs. There are beads of sweat on the low of Dean's back, dimples visible above his waistband and the cut of his hips like poured milk over his bones, pointing to an unlit path Sam's hard up to explore.

Chin cupped in his fist, Sam chews on his cuticles, looking up at his brother, dick heavy and full in his jeans as he contemplates leaving the table to relieve a little pressure.

It's hard to look away. Even harder to breathe when he's not sharing air with Dean. He touches a finger to the lip of his milk glass, circling it, imagines bending his brother over the counter, yanking his boxers down one-handed and bunny-fucking him. Sam's skin tingles at the thought of it.

"Dude," Dean interrupts, not bothering to look at Sam. "If you stare any harder you're gonna hurt something." Shift of weight from one foot to the other. Rubs his ankle with the top of his foot.

"Or pop a blood vessel."

Sam shrugs. "So."

Dean pushes a plate toward him. Sam watches askance, sucks his lip into his mouth and keeps it there, letting his eyes linger over Dean's body and stopping over his chest: nipples tightening into tiny stones.

Sam imagines closing his mouth over them, licking them shiny-wet. He's sure it shows on his face because his brother goes animal-still, eyes gone heavy-lidded. Sam's stomach grows warm, slightly queasy. He knows Dean gets it and he doesn't have to say a thing.

"Jesus, Sam. I—We can't. You know that. Not now . . . "

Sam's lip curls.

"_Dad_. I get it," he answers, drawing up into a semi-easy sprawl in his chair. "I _know_. I just don't have to like it . . ." He really doesn't. Sam can't help being difficult.

"It's his fault we're like this, you know."

"Sam—"

"Fuck. Alright, already. I'll shut up."

He knows the last place he should be is in a creepy attic in a house old enough to have a questionable history. But he's got to find something to do. He's not only caught up, but two weeks ahead of his assignments. And he's sick of watching Dean trip over his own feet to please John. Not that John notices. Too busy journaling and making his way to the bottom of a bottle of Johnny Walker.

So when Sam pulls off a sheet to reveal an old maple rocking chair, he's pleasantly surprised. The fact that he half expected to find a decomposing corpse sitting in it shows just how fucked up his childhood has been.

So, rocking chair?

_Total _win in his book. He needs a place to sit as he reads.

He lifts it. Decides it's easy enough to carry down the stairs and almost falls down twice getting it to the bedroom.

Sam is willing to admit that maybe it was a little intentional to position his chair so as to watch his brother go through his grooming routine.

After all, he's been pretending to read the book in his lap for the last half hour. In his own defense, Sam is seventeen and sexually objectifying others is the status quo. _Completely_ acceptable. Or _would be _if said object happened _not_ to be his own big brother.

Living the way they did, never sticking around long enough to form real relationships with outsiders, Sam feels set up from the start.

Also, Dean is pretty exceptional in a lot of ways, least of all, his physical beauty. It's impossible to overlook the low ride of Dean's jeans, barest cleft of his ass peaking from the hem. Listens to the clink of his belt buckle, not yet fastened.

Dean _has_ to be doing these things on purpose to provoke Sam. No way should Dean be this okay with parading around for Sam to gag over knowing how Sam feels. Sam knows a taunt when he sees one.

He scowls.

"What did that book ever do to you?" Dean says, walking toward him- toweling off the water in his hair- like they're old buddies and nothing more, jocks in a locker room, like it's fucking _normal _to look like he does after a long night; maybe a little pale, and dark around these eyes, but still vulnerably, indecently beautiful.

Anger crackles on Sam's skin. He's sick from waiting and wanting and hiding; sick of feeling helpless and wearing a mask for his brother's benefit.

Sam slams his book closed and tosses it at Dean's stupid, clueless face.

"You're a dick," he hisses and shoves him aside to get to the bathroom door.

"What crawled up—"

Sam shuts the door in Dean's face, rattling the frame and effectively muting his voice.

He has no excuse for it. Can't even pretend it's the shape of his own ass he's interested at looking at when he rests the floor-length mirror against the wall, _directly_ in front of the rocking chair.

So he has an agenda. He's okay with that. Certain it's worth the ridicule.

_Fuck, Sam, how girly can you be?_

Thing is, Sam has this picture of the sort of person his brother responds to and Sam has made it his mission to become that person. He's not going to give Dean the opportunity to treat him like a child, no matter how strange it feels sometimes to take the initiative, to break the mold of Dean's little brother and remake himself into something more.

Sam smiles a little unsure at his reflection. Takes a few steps back, calves hitting the edge of his bed, and feeling like he's teetering on the edge of something vast. He gets like this sometimes when he's alone, when Dean and John leave him behind on a hunt.

It's not just that John monopolizes most of Dean's time. It's the very real fear that every hunt could be their last, could be _Dean's_ last. And Sam can't be okay with that. Not having Dean's back. Not being there for his brother.

He steals Dean's pillow, presses his face against it, smelling shampoo and Dean and the unmade must of sex. He slides under the sheets just as heated memories slide into his mind: his brother's flushed cheek pressed into a wall, a sheet, a leather seat; heel of his foot against the tip of Sam's spine, jackhammer pulse in Sam's mouth, the feel of Dean's scars in his hands.

But most of all, Dean's blood slipping through his fingers.

It becomes a game between them. Ignore it and it'll go away: nothing to see and nothing to do about it. Horniness, jealousy, these things are beside the point. Whatever it is it's bigger than either of them and Sam is tired of carrying the burden alone.

It _pisses_ Sam off.

He doesn't bother masking his disapproval, as Dean gets ready for the night—

_Gotta make money, Sammy. Dad's gone. And I want to make sure we have more than we need to get through the month._

— like he's _not_ thinking about screwing some girl stupid.

Sam grinds his teeth a little, and he's sitting forward in his rocking chair, no longer rocking, eyes narrowed and locked on his brother as he moves back and forth between bathroom and closet. Focuses on the open wedge of Dean's towel, exposed thigh, the high rise of his ass.

It's too much and not enough.

He's pictured this many times, but it never quite lives up to the real thing, the shy buzzing current sliding up Sam's spine as he reaches out and pulls, towel falling and Dean pausing mid-stride, turning slow and sucking in a breath; Dean close enough Sam can feel his heat on his knee.

"Sam—" It's an admonishment, and a request, like two people talking at the same time.

"Don't leave," Sam says, into the flat of Dean's stomach. Skim of his hand on inner thigh, stirring the near invisible hairs there, pulling Dean to him by the apple of his cheek, humming approval over the tall, broad shape of Dean's quickly swelling dick. "Please."

"Sam, we really shou—"

"There's a lot we should and shouldn't be doing. This-" Sam flicks his tongue in a kittenish lick and palms the delicate, peach-smooth skin; nose brushing the underside of Dean's hard-on to lick along the seam of his sac. Suckling. Stinging clean smell of him making spit well up in Sam's jaw. "This is _small fries,_ Dean."

Dean gets a grip on Sam's shoulder and pushes him away. To say Sam is annoyed with Dean's restraint is an understatement.

"It's not right."

"Maybe, but I don't care. It is what it is, Dean, and you're as interested as I am by the looks of it. I refuse to be alone in this."

Sam knows Dean well enough to know he doesn't respond well to indecision: his own or another's. Dean's used to orders: giving and receiving them. And Sam? He's decidedly determined.

"I _want_ this. And you're going to _let me_ have it." Sam's tone is new and his words feel odd, but the effect it has over Dean tells Sam he's pulled it off. "We're still brothers," Sam continues, holding on to Dean, unwilling to let go. "_Still _brothers. Only deeper, only _more_."

Dean's breathing changes at that, the tension leaving his shoulders, head falling forward, eyes closed and mouth plumped with the promise of kisses. Leans into Sam, between Sam's spread legs. But it's not what Sam wants. Doesn't want Dean steady and calm. Wants him wild and wet and panting and as far from silent as Sam's ever heard him.

Sam prompts Dean to back away.

"Jeans," he says, in case Dean misinterprets his intention. Opening his fly, Sam lifts his hips. Tips his chair dangerously close to falling, and shoves the denim off his thighs, cock springing forth and slapping against his stomach. Flings the fabric aside with a kick and a flick of his ankle.

Sam is breathing hard already just looking at his brother. Thrown off balance by the way Dean's nudity levels the ground between them. Like this, he's different, not completely dispossessed of childhood; musculature still unsure and slight, freckles like stars-in-negative, eyes too big for his face.

Sam tilts forward, hands firm on Dean. Spins him around, and pulls him down to his lap with a loud smack as their thighs meet. Broken wings of his shoulder blades pressed flush to Sam's bare chest.

Dean groans as Sam pushes his knees between his and digs his nails into his thighs. Wrenches them wide, like pulling back a curtain. On full display for Sam to take in. The two of them reflected in the mirror.

"Oh, _fuck._"

He grips Dean between thumb and forefinger, palms the weight of his nuts with the other hand, as natural as touching himself in the dark. Can't manage a word, can't manage to do anything, save suck in air in anticipation. Looking down, across the walnut expanse of floor to where his double holds his brother open and captive in his lap.

It's beautiful, this hidden place, the color of an exposed heart, where Dean is everything. Bare and bared like the girls in Dean's dirty magazines. It bothers Sam a little, although he's unsure why.

Sam wiggles, shifts himself between the smooth seam of Dean's ass, feels his own slickness spill over on the skin of Dean's tailbone, the rough drag of flesh and Sam's hips moving faintly and mindlessly.

Dean's thighs shake, holding his position. Head turned away from the mirror and buried in Sam's neck. Dean's name comes out a moan as Sam nicks Dean's chin with his teeth, searching out his mouth, chasing it.

"_Kiss me."_

Dean does so eagerly, mouth sucking the breath from Sam's, tongue skimming his, tipping his hips back to grind up against Sam like a lap dancer working the floor. He's got his hand in Sam's hair, cupping his skull and tugging Sam deeper into the kiss. The draw of his tongue, an ebb-tide.

Sam doesn't care if he can't breathe or let go or stop pushing back into Dean, like they can break the laws of nature, mitosis in reverse. Not when Dean pulses and squeezes along the length of his dick and Sam thinks if they go on long enough he could come from it, by rubbing himself off on Dean, but it's not what Sam is going for.

He raises a hand to Dean's face, skimming his cheek and thrusts a thumb between Dean's lips, pulling at his jaw to rest his fingers against his tongue.

"I want you to suck them and leave them as wet as you can," he hisses into Dean's open mouth. "It's all the prep your gonna get."

Dean's eyes close and he hums, needing this, a little pain to keep him present.

He teases Sam's fingers apart with his tongue, licks along his knuckles. Drags his teeth over the edge of his palm. Sam is kind of at a loss. Doesn't think it should be possible to do the things Dean does so effortlessly.

It's hot and it might as well be Sam's dick Dean is sucking on by the way Sam is getting off on it, pitching his hips forward in hungry little circles as Dean makes tiny bobbing motions around Sam's fingers. The slit of Sam's cock dragging between his cheeks, balls pressed close, so close Sam's sparse hair crinkles like dry leaves between their bodies.

Dean chases Sam's hand when it pulls out and Sam meets Dean's lips with his own. He feels a little wild and overcome wanting Dean: mouth, hands, body, the spread of his legs and the breadth of his dick in Sam's hands, the soft give of his sac, the feel of Dean's _lips and_ tongue, soft and insubstantial as whipped cream. The muffled little noises he makes as he writhes, panting air through his nose.

He traces him, along the edges of his hole. Swallows each quiet crooning sound of encouragement Dean makes as Sam pushes in and Dean cants forward until Sam's inside up to his first set of knuckles. He curls the tips like a hook to tease. Dean jerks, warning or encouragement. Maybe both.

When he shrinks from Sam's mouth, he meets Sam's eyes in the mirror. Spiky hair kind of crazy-looking and eyes glinting beneath the heavy fringe of his lashes, gaze flicked downward, to where they meet.

"C'mon. Don't half-ass it now."

Sam's face heats at the goad. A sound like a word trapped in Dean's chest as he yanks Sam's hair. Sam thinks of filling him, the sweetness of it, as his fingers slowly disappear, not nearly as easily as he'd like.

"Relax," Sam whispers and forces himself deeper into Dean, tugging at him and rolling his nuts in his palms. "C'mon. You can take it."

Not one to be shown up, Dean arches into it, chest pushed out, head tossed over Sam's shoulder, taking him all and the sight of it dazes Sam, hits him hard in the chest. Grunts when Dean's hips snap back into him and forward again, shoving his dick into Sam's hand and fucking himself on Sam's fingers. It gets Sam jetting a little along the cleft of Dean's ass, the slide of his back.

His skin is as hot and tight as Dean feels, burning up. He takes what Dean gives, which is nothing short of everything. It leaves Sam ragged and raw from the onslaught: the glassy look in his brother's eyes, the pitch and sway of the chair, corkscrew of hips on his lap and the obscenity of it all. Dean's mouth parted, legs spread, one hand on Sam's arm and the other on his shoulder.

"_More." _

Dean seizes Sam's wrist and makes Sam thrust inside him, quick and brutal. Sam's cock slipping along his back, slicked with sweat and slick. The sweet and sour musk of sex thick as water in Sam's throat, making him drunk.

Sam shudders and gets a hand between them, grips himself between thumb and knuckle and forces himself inside Dean alongside his fingers, tight cincture around the head of Sam's cock, the tips of his fingers. Dean's howl washes over him like rain. And he pulses and tightens around Sam's dick and his fingers like a heated coil. He squirms and bares his teeth at Sam, but refuses to protest.

And Sam allows him a heartbeat, before disappearing into him, heat flooding around the head of Sam's dick, breaking through the crazy pinch of it all.

Dean makes a tiny hurt noise as Sam wiggles his fingers, and Sam's cock jumps and works itself in further, the sight of Dean closing down on him, trying to keep him out, the light from the lamp catching on the wet gleam of saliva, all of it merging inside Sam into near violent desire.

"You gonna just sit there all night or you gonna fuck me?" Dean pants at Sam, grin slow and dark and slightly loopy, the sort of smile he gives that insinuates he's spent an entire lifetime charming everyone he meets.

To say that Dean takes competition seriously is an understatement and one-upmanship is par for the course. He's no different when they fuck and he's always been able to slip underneath Sam's skin, push his buttons with snarling jibes, so Sam can't feel guilty for any of his actions.

He slides an arm around Dean's waist, immobilizing him, his dick opening him wider as Sam watches in the mirror, heat and pressure remarkable. And by the dazed, helpless look on Dean's face, he knows Dean feels it too.

Sam's gentle at first, slightest tilt, up and in, back and forth, a rocking, cresting motion, that sets the chair going.

He's pictured this, alone and sometimes not, wanted to pair sensation to sight—Dean hot and small around his dick and the hard, smooth weight of his thighs on Sam's, the velvet heavy weight of him in Sam's free hand.

Everything hot and liquid and easy, but most of all easy. The world could burn down around them and it wouldn't matter a thing, because he's in love with his brother and his brother loves him back.

Sam pushes and retreats, rocking them like a pendulum, slip and catch and slide, Dean gripping and spasming and sucking him in like another greedy mouth. It's painful and good, the grainy slip of their fucking. Little jerks of Dean's stomach under Sam's "freak paw". Glare of wet on Dean's lips, his eyes. Skin pale gold and freckles pepper-dark over his blushing cheeks.

Sam doesn't pause. He uses the chair for momentum, letting it set the pace, Dean's breathy moans driving the punishing thump of his cock.

"Sam—Sammy," Dean blows out in a rush, hands moving to Sam's hips, gouging crescents into his flesh, long toes scratching at Sam's ankles.

"Tell me how it feels," Sam mouths into his neck. "Tell me."

Dean's brow creases, head drooping over Sam's shoulder. And for a moment Sam thinks Dean won't say anything.

"It's . . . fuck. _Fuck,"_ He groans, then in a rush: "I can feel all of you, Sam. Everything. Thick mushroom head. Pressure of it. All over inside. Want you _out_, but I can't. You're in too deep. Don't think I can stretch anymore. Don't think I can _take _anymore. Just_ don't_ stop, _don't stop, don't stop._ Please. Sam. _Don't._" Dean's feet touch the floor and he pushes back, slamming into Sam, uncontrolled and terrifying lurch. His body swallowing Sam up.

Sam is really, _really_ gonna loose it if Dean doesn't shut up. Isn't gonna matter that Sam jerked off earlier today and all his preparation will be for naught.

"Can feel you, in my gut," Dean continues, grabbing hold of his own cock, "In my back. Can't really tell. Just _pressure_, just _need. _Don't want it. _Don't _want it. But I _want you, want you, want you."_

Looking over Dean's shoulder, Sam watches Dean's dick dribble over his knuckles, like Sam's pushing it all out of him. Dean keeps pulling him back in, taking shallow, racing breaths that ripple across his stomach muscles, hands clenching and unclenching, ringing himself, holding off his orgasm.

And it makes Sam crazy, makes him bite and suck and scratch. Makes him pull at the dusky pink hole until Dean's no longer making any sense and cries out in endless little _uh-uh-uh-uhs._ He's so unresisting, welcoming, pliant. So open for Sam.

Dean's eyes flutter closed, and he drags his teeth along Sam's jaw, the curl of his ear, presses his mouth to the corner of Sam's lips. Grabs Sam's knees to lean forward and stop the pendulum swing of the chair.

"Spit," he says to Sam, chest pressed to Sam's thighs to reveal his back to Sam and Sam does, rubs his thumb into the saliva, pushes it in, spreading it along Dean's rim and his cock. Sam can't get over the sight, pushes a hand to the middle of Dean's back as if to soothe. His entire body thrumming, buzzing, and then he's fucking in, pulling Dean in by the hip, jarring himself, jarring Dean, from the impact.

Dean moans, "Feels wrong, _feels right._ Can't make sense. _Want_ to fight. Need to fight." And Dean's chest starts heaving against Sam's thighs. The muscles of his back locking together, straining and rippling underneath Sam's hand.

It's enough. Sam shoves him off onto the floor. And Dean's knees thud loud enough _Sam _winces, but Sam's on him before he has a chance to protest, stuffing him full, turning this thing into something more animal than languid and lazy.

Dean buries his face into the cradle of his arms, spreads his legs wide as Sam pulls him onto his dick, onto each rough jag of his hips slamming into his ass. The slope of Dean's back, his utter surrender, everything about him set up to unmake Sam, strip him of patience and sensitivity, successfully turning this into another id-fuck.

And Sam knows he's got the angle right when Dean shouts and fucks back with a hand on Sam's hip and he comes all over the floor, tensing and relaxing and breathing hard and hurting Sam with his contractions. It's the first time Dean's done this, come untouched and Sam doesn't think he's going to tease Dean about it, but he is going to make it a point to do it again.

With the balls of his feet, Sam scrabbles for a grip on the floor, lunging inelegantly and sending Dean sprawling on his stomach.

"Sam!" he shouts, probably disgusted at falling in his own jizz- and fuck, Sam thinks it's really, really _fucking_ hot. "Sam! Don't you—Don't you fuckin' dare—"

But Sam's got his thighs outside of Dean's and Dean's triceps pinned to the floor and Dean has no other choice than to take what Sam gives. And Sam's filling, lengthening, hitting a peak—

"Sam!"

Dean's perfect, tight hole on him, hot, and soft, and too much to sink into. There is no way out. Body racing toward orgasm. Sam's gonna come, Sam's gonna come, Sam is going to come long and hard and quite possibly shouting. Sam is -

"Pull out!"

Done.

Just done. It's like panic or release, pressure in his chest and his dick and jets of moisture around his cock. Maybe even flailing. Maybe even cursing, but he's in as far as he could go and managed to fuck himself through all of it. Flooding Dean with it.

Dean is very, very still underneath him and Sam? Sam is maybe a little scared. Maybe a little smug and satisfied at the semi-intentional claim.

"You little fucking _shit!"_ Every muscle in Dean is coiled to fight. "This is what's going to happen. I'm going to shower and you're going to wait for me right here and I'm going to kick your ass from now to next Sunday. I'm going to make you miserable for however long I see fit."

Sam shoves in a little, pleased at the filthy squelch. _"I'm counting on it."_

At least he knows he'll have Dean's full attention and Sam thinks it's a win all around.

~End~

_AN: To Ash-carpenter for the beta and Mekina for the cheerleading and Kalliel for characterization. And if this fic comes off at all as being dark or messed up it's COMPLETELY Ash's fault! (Or because we're the sort of girls who drink liquor as opposed to champagne _;)_ Because sick and twisted is apparently contagious. Take your pick. It's still her fault. I did my best. And it is officially _DONE! YAY!

Now I can get on with my _real _life . . . I've got lots of homework people . . . The fic that ate my brain has been officially exorcised.


End file.
